


o'er the bleak hills fled from our sight

by lokium



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Character Study, Commentary, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:09:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8052280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokium/pseuds/lokium
Summary: As Lucas looks at Andy Sullivan, the naked relief on his face, the tears in his eyes, all he can see is himself. One of the cardinal rules of the job is keeping detachment, that hasn’t changed either, and he knows Harry will have stern words at the ready when he returns, but, well, it’s hard not to feel like he’s managed to save some part of himself as well.

 
kind of commentary fic on the events from the beginning of s7 of spooks. incredibly indulgent and probably far too biased by my own thoughts on lucas. content warnings - character death, references to torture/imprisonment, alcohol; nothing more graphic than the show itself. also general warning for pretentious literary references, mostly william blake





	o'er the bleak hills fled from our sight

It’s autumn when Lucas returns, though only just; the trees are quick becoming skeletons and the air has a definite chill to it, but according to the calendar winter doesn’t start until mid-December. For some reason, Lucas is glad to have caught the season, even if it is only the tail end. He’ll take any signs from higher powers he can get, and the prophetic meanings of winter are less than favourable.

Of course, there’s no room for superstition in this life.

 

 

 

“Just tell me, and I’ll go and I’ll do it.”

Behind the bland smile, the easy posture, there’s a plaintive note sneaking into his voice then, this plea for direction, even as sarcastic as it’s coming across. Harry’s expression doesn’t change, but that’s what tells him the sincerity worked through, and as foolish as he feels, he doesn’t back down.

Harry gives him two days’ leeway and then a parting shot over his shoulder.

_You’ve been missed._

Lucas isn’t sure which one throws him more.

 

 

 

For all the detail and care and _danger_ of the assignment, Lucas is more at ease breaking into a terrorist’s house than he’s been in the past eight years. It’s a comfort that even after all this time, some things haven’t changed – the tech is smaller and sleeker, employees have been replaced, Harry and Malcolm have so many more lines on their faces, but this, the _job_ , he can still do this.

The sense of accomplishment, the satisfaction, is familiar more than the ground he stands on, and he knows this is what he works for.

Kissing the joy as it flies, indeed.

 

 

 

That car journey from the deserted car park back to the Grid had given Lucas time to think, time in which the realisation he was _free_ could sink in. Promises are hard to make, harder to keep, even – especially – promises to oneself, but the one thing Lucas had decided for sure was that he would take what he could. Eight years being starved of not only food but light, touch, any kind of comfort – well, after that, he thinks he deserves to be somewhat selfish.

Adam Carter is objectively good-looking, but it’s his persistence in treating Lucas like a person rather than an asset that confirms Lucas’ attraction to him. That half-smile and huff of laughter he gives at Lucas’ quip about his clothes is a validation, but the concern over his comfort is touching.

The subtle, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flicker of Adam’s gaze over his body—well, it doesn’t hurt.

 

 

 

Pulling together details and working them into a plan is something Lucas has always found natural, easy even, but more than that, it’s satisfying, the click of pieces slotting into place, especially when it comes as a surprise to others. Suggesting a phone call in Russian to the execution team seems logical, but Adam obviously wasn’t expecting it, judging by the impressed cadence of his expression as he fits himself into Lucas’ plan.

That doesn’t hurt either.

 

 

 

As Lucas looks at Andy Sullivan, the naked relief on his face, the tears in his eyes, all he can see is himself. One of the cardinal rules of the job is keeping detachment, that hasn’t changed either, and he knows Harry will have stern words at the ready when he returns, but, well, it’s hard not to feel like he’s managed to save some part of himself as well.

Adam steps in to help the soldier to his feet, give him the reassurances Lucas hadn’t been afforded, and it’s hard not to also feel bitter.

 

 

 

Despite not having known Adam from before, his presence is far better at helping Lucas adjust than staying in the Grid would have been. He’s a picture of English stoicism, dry-witted and collected, and above that, he’s incredibly competent, as close to a perfect field agent he’s ever come across. He has no comments to make on Lucas’ situation, no questions, awkward or otherwise, and for a while Lucas doesn’t forget, of course he doesn’t, but the weight of the past eight years isn’t quite so oppressive; he can breathe easier for a while.

And then Adam goes up in smoke, along with his accompanying sanctuary, and it steals the breath from his body altogether.

 

 

 

The (thankfully short) debrief in the aftermath of Adam’s death is, well, the less said the better. Harry is incandescent in his anger, and the new woman, Ros Meyers, is filled with a cold, barely-controlled rage that simmers in counterpoint. Malcolm is silently horrified; Jo and Ben, too, are horrified, but not quite so quietly. Maybe they’ve not had as much experience with losing people close to them, not like Connie and her resigned grief, as if she’s skipped the denial and anger the others are clearly still caught in and gone straight through to acceptance.

Lucas isn’t sure how he feels about it, but more to the point, he’s not sure how he’s _allowed_ to feel about it. He didn’t know Adam, he’s not part of the team, and he feels as though he’s intruding on their privacy, a privacy that should be afforded right now. And yet, it’s Sunday evening and he should be able to just leave, actually go to that safehouse Harry’s enforced on him, sleep in a real bed for the first time in, God, how many years?—but he doesn’t know his place here, and he doesn’t think Harry will allow him to walk out unchallenged.

Finally, once the timeline of events has been confirmed, all the details given, clinical and detached as if deliberately not acknowledging the hole created by Adam’s absence, _finally_ , Harry dismisses them, tells them to take care of paperwork tomorrow, and Lucas tries to catch his eye. Harry nods, glances in the direction of his office.

Harry doesn’t speak as he sets two heavy tumblers on the desk, pours a generous measure of whisky into both, and hands one to Lucas.

“You are not to disappear,” he says, after a few moments. Lucas inclines his head in reply, because really, even if he had somewhere else to go, the promise of a few hours’ real sleep far outweighs any flight instincts he may have. “Obviously I cannot sanction you to join the team or give you clearance just yet, not while you’re still officially being debriefed. However, that can be done on the Grid, and if you wish to help out in the meantime—well, I’m sure the argument can be made for using all resources at hand when fighting threats to our country.”

“So it’s probation, of a kind,” Lucas summarises. Disappointing, but not unexpected. “When should I be here next?”

“How about eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” Harry says, and while it’s phrased like a question, it’s more of an order.

“No rest for the wicked.” Lucas smirks, and this is familiar territory, he knows Harry—as much as anyone can truly know Harry Pearce—and it’s as much home as anything else about this place. He takes another sip of the really rather good whisky, and now he knows where his job stands, he can’t ignore the other matter at hand. He knows that behind Harry’s anger is a complex combination of grief, guilt and probably a whole lot less easily definable; the loss of an agent is always difficult, the loss of a trusted friend far worse, but worse still is holding oneself responsible for it, and Lucas knows command positions, and Harry, well enough that he can understand some measure of how it feels.

He takes a breath, steadies himself, knows how close to the line he’s toeing, nevertheless speaks, “Harry—”

“I know what you’re about to say,” Harry cuts in, tone abruptly brittle, then sighs, seems to deflate slightly. “Do us both a favour and don’t say it.”

And that’s it, isn’t it, it’s not the anger or the shock or the pain that hits hardest at the end, it’s the bone-aching tiredness of it all, of losing so many people, of losing someone close. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Lucas says instead, throws back the rest of the whisky, sets the glass down and leaves quietly.

For all that he has some measure of direction for the next few days, it still doesn’t feel like a resolution, and Harry’s obvious grief hangs over him as he makes his way to London Bridge tube station. Despite this, the city streets are familiar enough to be soothing even now, and while he doesn’t exactly linger outside, he still does his best to take comfort in his city, barely changed in his absence.

And if he forces himself to look on the Thames as that charter’d river, well, that’s between him and Blake.

 

 

 

 


End file.
